swingingfromacloud-blog

[swingingfromacloud-blog]

"How High Are You When You Write and How Clogged Up is Your Brain with Words and What Kinds of Musical Notes are You Jotting Down Even Now as You Open Your Mouth to Speak and Only Feathers Come Out"

[swingingfromacloud-blog]

I'm exhausted and haven't the time nor will to proofread. Perhaps if I return to this piece in a better state of mind I'll do something productive about it.

[swingingfromacloud-blog]

4 june 2013

[swingingfromacloud-blog]

Of What the Dead Dream

- written 1 may 2013 -

We are all of us graveyard visionaries,

unable to see the insanity in the vanity of bone;

like Schrödinger's cat we are both dead and alive,

and in living this Death we are home.

[swingingfromacloud-blog]

Forest (by Hengki Koentjoro)

[swingingfromacloud-blog]

"Do you still want to be smaller?"

No, darling -

I want to be stone-cold and pebble-small,

slow like marrow in ashen bone, and 

smooth and rough and hollow like

everything I know I am not.

Ask me again and I will spend silent centuries poring over

tomes of ancient text,

learning myself immortal and 

reading myself alive;

every day you look me in the eyes, saying,

"You're gonna die, you know,"

and I tell you I do know.

And I do know.

As a child I believed us all to be waterfalls

but

people like you and I only fall as acid rain.

[swingingfromacloud-blog]

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drifter59 (by yuu sakai)

[swingingfromacloud-blog]

A dog plays on a seesaw with children in Scotland, March 1919. Photograph by William Reid, National Geographic

[swingingfromacloud-blog]

The TARDIS as seen on the first episode of Doctor Who, 1963.

[swingingfromacloud-blog]

[swingingfromacloud-blog]

[swingingfromacloud-blog]

[swingingfromacloud-blog]

Enemy

- written 14 april 2013 -

He

is nightmare-woven, heaven-forged

bone-burnt and shadow-shallow.

When you look into the haze of the man

he once was,

you see time unravel.

When you look into his coal-dark eyes, mere

hollows, sea-caves and starfields,

you see a battlefield littered with

the corpses of stars.

You see valleys clouded by veils of

skeleton dust hanging from their 

gallows in the sky.

He

is bitter breath, winter in the marrow of bones.

Still,

you long to clear the ash of death from beneath his eyelids; you

long to carve the breath from your lungs.

For him,

you are willing to wield your life like a paper crane,

all patterns and creases and folds;

you are willing to reach while falling.